


sweets for my sweet

by st_elsewhere



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Barebacking, Clothed Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Size Kink, Wall Sex, caninho kills me, for story purpose only nods nods, philippe is a gooner lmao, the title is an innuendo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 01:18:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7554589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_elsewhere/pseuds/st_elsewhere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>emre's brand new liverpool kit is in double XL size.<br/>impromptu sex ensues.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	sweets for my sweet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mercuries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuries/gifts).



> hollering [@mercuries](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuries/pseuds/mercuries) because if hendollana cleanses me, keeps me alive, shows me the light... then caninho? caninho _**kills me.**_  
>   
>  my first ever caninho fic, plz be gentle and tell me whachu think. also kudos. yas.  
> [dis what emre's apartment looks like. very helpful for imagination lol.](http://www.rightmove.co.uk/property-to-rent/property-60768059.html)  
> ps. if you can slightly sniff and GUESS the hinted hendollana stuff here, then  
> ↓↓↓  
>   
> 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

they’re waiting for their ‘five guys’ delivery to arrive. emre lives in a tiny flat just near the albert dock, a tidy and clutter-free space decorated sparsely. it’s a different take on what’s a bachelor flat look like if you compare it to philippe and his brother’s; leandro had once joked _to call up your boyfriend to manage our lair, philly, i’ll pay him!_ and philippe had answered by staying in emre’s for a week, thoroughly insulted.

anyway.

philippe zaps through the cable, looking for nothing specific to watch while emre is hunched over his macbook to write a report. it’s a friday night and they’ve had planned to party with studge, but oh the woe of being the youngest intern at klopp & associates law firm. philippe couldn’t be prouder of his boyfriend, really. besides, they both need a quiet night in. philippe had a rather rough week with the pitching against goodison for a coca cola ad, one that even dejan’s charming smile couldn’t convince coca cola to sign them in.

philippe settles for a cooking channel. jamie oliver is telling them he will make a rose out of an avocado. philippe turns down the volume and peeks from behind emre’s shoulders. he’s still stuck on page ten.

“alright?” philippe reaches out a hand to tug at emre’s loose, fluffy black hair. they took shower together, had a nice make out session as philippe made coffee, and agreed to have dinner in front of the TV.

emre twists his neck to scrunch his nose at philippe; his way of wordless apology because philippe told him he’s had enough.

“how about you?” emre asks, shifting so his left elbow can rest on the edge of his plush, expensive, grey sofa.

“comfy.” philippe says, smiling down.

“that’s a relief.”

“when’s the report due again?”

“monday.”

“you have two more days.”

“i know.” emre goes back to his macbook and relaxes his shoulders against the sofa. he balances the laptop on his knees. “please don’t stop petting my hair.”

philippe squeals and surges forward to hug emre’s giant head, squeezing it to his chest. emre yelps but soon gives in.

they were mutual friends of a friend (dejan) before they started enjoying each other’s kisses and philippe didn’t know he’s capable of kissing the same guy for six months straight (ha ha). also, contrary to popular belief, philippe might be only reaching 5’7 with no prominent jawline whatsoever but he’s actually older than emre by _two_ _years_ ; a fact that he never, never ever fails to mention whenever emre is _not_ behaving exactly how he wants.

the supposedly tyrant-ish quality serves as a backlash, for emre would literally do anything for him even without the supposedly tyrant-ish quality on display. not that philippe is complaining.

“alright?” philippe asks again, nuzzling his nose to the tapered side of emre’s head.

“ _comfy_.” emre retorts fondly and philippe gives emre’s left, stubble-heavy cheek a loud smooch.

“good, because!” philippe plops back down on the sofa, nearly kneeing emre’s head by accident. “i’m closing my eyes. wake me up when the food arrives, yeah?”

emre laughs. his gesture is so grand philippe could’ve dodged the pinch he gets on his thigh.

“you can turn off jamie oliver.”

“‘s fine, let him be.”

philippe closes his eyes. breathes. blinks, and zeroes in his sight to emre’s leather satchel by the coffee table.

“what’s that red thing in your bag?”

emre doesn’t even bat an eyelash hearing philippe’s question. he’s just _that_ understanding. “it’s liverpool’s new kit.”

“of the 2016 season?” philippe is well-known to have endless supply of energy among his friends, his shyness is just a facade. he never takes a nap. sex doesn’t tire him out unless he’s fucked twice. waiting for their greasy burgers and cajun style fries to arrive surely won’t make him fall asleep too easily.

“yes.”

 “sweet, can i see it?”

emre hums his affirmation and philippe usually will start to act obnoxiously cute around his boyfriend once he’s being ignored for a long period—say, for almost an hour now—but emre really needs to get the report done. philippe has been holding himself back from acting obnoxiously cute like clinging to emre’s solid chest or demanding a pair of steady arms around his middle as he sits on emre’s lap. he needs a distraction.

the kit looks like a curtain because it’s really big. very red, but not in the shade that philippe likes. um. the collar looks restricting with thin yellow lines. the design is very modest. there’s a small but visible 96 wedged in between torches embroidered in the back collar.

apparently the kit is in double XL size. whoa.

philippe snorts a laugh because emre has the kit customized with his name but with the number 8 of steven gerrard, his favorite player. philippe originally came from brazil, football is in his blood, he’s england’s citizen for almost ten years now but unlike emre and their circle of friends, philippe prefers arsenal.

“ _‘there’s no noise like anfield noise’_.” philippe reads out loud. “who said that?”

“ian st john.” emre mumbles.

“cool.” philippe wonders if the kit will swallow him. he wears emre’s sweaters and t-shirts, that’s true, he loves the feeling of well worn fabrics that belongs to his boyfriend, he likes to fit in there somewhere.

right now, he’s just bored. he needs a distraction, remember?

“do you mind if i try it?”

“wha—” emre croaks out. philippe grimaces.

“it’s just... so big. i’m curious.”

“oh. yeah. go ahead.”

the sliding doors of emre’s built in closet are mirrors, and so philippe wastes no time to put on the red kit.

the hem reaches the top of philippe’s thighs. no surprises there. the shoulders and the sides are swallowing him fully and the sleeves are just millimeters away from the dips of his elbows. he looks ridiculous in it. the tag itches his nape, but as he tries to remember where emre stores a scissor, the doorbell rings.

“i got it!” philippe shouts from the bedroom. he hears emre thanking him and he flashes a smile as he walks pass by, but emre is already frowning back to his work.

he tips the delivery guy, bids him goodnight, and moans when he inhales the spices coming from the paper bags.

“don’t forget to wash your hands first!” philippe quips, going to the kitchen himself to do just so.

there’s a rustle before emre’s soft padding coming to the kitchen, and philippe yelps because he almost drops their dinner; emre is just hovering in the hallway, standing tall dressed in all black.

“close your mouth!” philippe tuts, knocking his hips against emre’s. he can feel emre’s tired eyes following his every move as he goes back to the living room.

philippe puts the paper bags on the sofa, and then he sets aside emre’s macbook on the coffee table. he can do nothing about the scattered papers because who knows maybe emre had arranged them according to the timeline of the case, or something. he sits down in the middle of the sofa and zaps again to BBC two. ah, just right in time for the great british bake off season 6. his favorite, adam lallana, is currently on screen, smiling to the camera.

emre plops down next to him.

“here you go,” philippe hands over emre’s kosher style hot dog, with extra pickles and jalapeno peppers. philippe glances up, and emre looks away. “why are you looking at me like that?” he deadpans, smiling shyly because it’s always like walking in the clouds whenever emre looks at him like tha—oh. _oh_ , wait.

oh!

emre swallows, takes a noisy breath, and says _nothing_ almost inaudibly.

but philippe is always so, so quick to catch the telltale signs of emre’s lust. which, now that philippe _really_ _thinks_ about it, also feels like walking in the clouds. smug is the easier vocabulary to describe philippe’s wonder of how a man looking like the perfect embodiment of tall, dark, and handsome could be having lustful thoughts about a man looking like him; not that philippe is hideous or undeserving, because emre loves to remind him that he doesn’t care what people think, like how they’re too mismatched for a couple or that philippe is waaaaay below his league et cetera et cetera.

“it’s not nothing,” philippe’s teasing grin is inevitable and both of them know it. suddenly, philippe is feeling giddy and his bacon cheeseburger can wait. “it’s me in the kit, right? huh?”

emre huffs. “no. will you take it off,” he clicks his tongue, “please?”

“are you sure you want me to—fine, alright.” philippe doesn’t continue his jibe because emre is blushing and begging him to stop with his tired, hard-set eyes. _fine_.

slowly, philippe pulls the hem of emre’s kit, revealing his ‘the neighbourhood’ first UK tour t-shirt, and successfully refrains himself from exclaiming ta-daa! just to embarrass emre even more. he folds the kit and tucks it back into emre’s leather satchel. he elbows emre’s side as he goes back to his spot, but getting little to no response from his boyfriend, then it’s time for his obnoxious cuteness to make an entrance.

all grace be damned, philippe scrambles to sit on emre’s lap; wrapping his arms around emre’s neck while his naked thighs are enclosing emre’s waist.

emre flushes red right down to his neck. it’s a good sight against the black of his hair and t-shirt.

“comfy?” philippe is small, and he’s _cruel_. he knows perfectly well how to push emre’s buttons, so he rolls his hips; slotting his flimsy boxer-clad crotch to emre’s worn out black, basketball shorts.

“ah.” emre sighs, rubbing his thumbs on philippe’s smooth, upper thighs. soon his fingers follow, squeezing and caressing philippe’s exposed skin.

this is so easy.

“but i wear your oversized clothes all the time,” philippe says, pressing loud, cute kisses all over emre’s nose, lips, the cut of his cheekbones, his temple. “what’s up with _a football kit_?”

emre clears his throat and moves his hands to map philippe’s spine. the width of emre’s one palm can splay across the _entirety_ of philippe’s back and if emre is turned on by philippe looking ridiculous in a curtain-like football kit, then emre literally manhandling him is _it_ for philippe.

“that’s probably it,” emre mumbles, most likely reading philippe’s mind. he inhales the crook of philippe’s neck religiously, and his voice shakes a little when he breathes, “ _god_ , you were just so sexy.”

philippe’s teasing grin turns into a beam.

“let’s change the past tense to a present, i can, i mean i should wear your kit right now!”

“uh.”

“that’s a yes?”

“i—”

“come on, we can have a quickie before dinner!”

philippe doesn’t wait for emre’s protest to die down before he undresses, still seated on emre’s lap. he throws his grey t-shirt to emre’s face, hopping off and almost slips on the scattered papers to get the football kit in emre’s leather satchel. he snaps off the tag without damaging the fabric, and dons the ‘curtain’ unceremoniously.

emre is on him in an instant. he hauls philippe up on his shoulders, fireman style.

philippe giggles, kicking his legs wildly in the air. emre uses _one_ hand to tame them, then he _bites_ the swell of philippe’s left ass.

hard.

“ _ow_! hey!” philippe heaves when he’s tossed to the made bed, the sting of emre’s bite sends a pleasant tinge to his half-hard cock. “that hurts,” he pouts though, just to irk his boyfriend because he can.

“you love it,” emre grunts, going right to peel philippe’s flimsy boxer off. “turn around.” he licks his full lips when philippe is finally naked from waist down.

“what, _a bite_ on my ass is the foreplay?” philippe whines but turning to his front anyway, knees up, elbows down, ass in the air. he hears emre taking a very deep breath.

“oh, fuuuu _uccck_. look at you.” emre grunts again, moaning like it physically hurts him to see philippe looking ridiculous but _sexy_ in a red curtain; the neck area is so wide that philippe’s left shoulder is exposed. the front falls down to the bed, and philippe thinks he might as well takes it off. but that’s against the whole point of living up his boyfriend’s newly discovered kink, right?

emre is rucking up the kit even higher, bunching it up on his fist just right below philippe’s shoulder blades.

“goddammit,” emre curses, “we should probably stop.”

“what? why? no!” philippe uses a force to swat emre’s hands off of him. he sits up, facing emre, and emre lets him climb to his lap again. “what the hell?” he asks softly, searching for emre’s eyes.

“i just,” emre swallows, frowns, and presses a tender kiss to philippe’s right palm. his free hand is caressing philippe’s nape. “i don’t think i can hold back. once we... y’know.”

philippe opens his mouth to argue but emre shushes him with a deep kiss; so, so deep and filthy philippe melts into emre’s tongue and lips. when they break apart for air, emre whispers, “i want to fuck you raw, _yavrum_ , i want you to _fucking take it_ , but i’m not sure i won’t hurt you if i do.”

oh. wow.

“h-how do you picture fucking me?”

“honestly?”

“honestly.”

“against the wall.” emre blurts and kisses philippe’s lips like he’s apologizing for voicing out his desire. he licks down, down to latch his mouth to philippe’s pulse point. “i want you to cling to me, take my cock, _hngh_ , letting me slicking your hole with my come, ruining my new kit, you scratching my back—”

“ _nngh..._ ” philippe moans, rocking back against emre’s erection. they’ve never fucked against things that aren’t horizontal. hell, emre is usually _quiet_ during sex! the imaginary and the fact that emre is talking dirty to him makes philippe’s cock throbs harder. “ugh, come on, then. do it. take me.”

emre sniffs.

“are you sure?”

“positive.” philippe bites the thin skin on emre’s neck, sucking a hickey. “how raw do you want me?”

emre gasps, helpless, when philippe brushes his knuckles to his crotch. “t-two fingers with just spit as lube?”

“ _ohgod_ —” philippe’s eyes flutter closed. emre is, by all means, _packing_ something down there. phillipe at least needs three _and_ a half fingers with tons of his favorite water-based lube before he can take the whole girth and length of emre’s cock. if that means sex with emre has been vanilla for the past six months, you get it right.

it’s time for a change.

“‘oh god’ good or bad— _fuck_. fuck, _yeah_.” emre’s whole body shudders when philippe licks the V between emre’s index and middle fingers. philippe takes control, using emre’s wrist to move emre’s gigantic left hand in and out of his mouth; licking the pads, tasting salt and the chamomile scented hand wash. emre’s thumb is on philippe’s chin, rubbing appreciative circles.

philippe guides emre’s right hand to his hard, abandoned cock. emre gives it a squeeze before swiping some precome from the head to ease his stroking. philippe closes his eyes, pushing back to emre’s hand. saliva drips from the corners of his mouth where emre’s two fingers are stretching it wide so philippe’s tongue doesn’t miss a spot.

“that’s enough,” emre says, low enough to get philippe’s attention. the younger man pulls his fingers out of philippe’s mouth; pulls his hand back from stroking philippe’s cock to ease off of his black basketball shorts. he spits to his right hand, and then he’s tending his cock. philippe mentally shrugs, sure that he has better idea.

“let me.” he bends his waist to reach emre’s cock, and swallows half of emre’s length in his mouth. he dips his hips, wriggling his ass a little bit because he can’t exactly speak right now, and emre curses again before he puts in his index finger to philippe’s clenching hole.

philippe moans, halting his attempt to deepthroat. he can’t help it. the last time they’ve had sex was about ten days ago and he hadn’t really feel like playing with himself. emre’s fingers are thick, just like the rest of him; also long, they can reach his prostrate without having to twist and nudge too much. _ungh_.

emre’s sudden spurt of precome awakens philippe from his fanboying over emre’s fingers. right. his spit is the only lube he will have if he wants to get emre’s beautiful, thick, veiny cock _in_ him.

emre smells clean down there. his balls are already heavy and his cock twitches when philippe introduces some teeth. philippe can deepthroat, and emre’s lack of wiry, dark hair helps a lot. he puts a pressure on a particular vein just on the underside of emre’s cock while his left hand fondles the heavy balls, and emre flinches because of the combined sensation.

philippe whines when emre pushes in the second, and last, finger.

“you’re so tight,” emre breathes, “didn’t do anything last week?” he asks, scissoring his fingers.

“nuh-huh,” philippe answers with a loud slurp, kissing the cut head, smearing precome all over his lips. “too lazy.”

“well,” emre grunts, “great. i like you tight.”

“always.” philippe smiles, gives emre’s cock a couple of strokes, and straightens up to place an open mouthed kiss to emre’s lips. he aligns their hard cocks and pushes forward, rolling his ass to get emre’s fingers deeper.

“angh, _okay_ , i’m okay.” he hugs emre’s shoulders and wraps his sweaty legs around emre’s waist. “hurry up.”

emre pulls his fingers out and takes hold of the back of philippe’s knees, hoisting him up _effortlessly_ as he walks them to the wall, just right next to the bed.

philippe _oofs_ when his back hits the wall with a thud. his breath hitches when the wet head of emre’s cock is already in position. he’s hoisted up higher so he’s looking down at emre, who’s looking up at him in awe.

“comfy?” emre asks, looking _ridiculous_ himself with specks of milky white precome on his beard. philippe scoffs, kissing him again to shut him up. emre pushes in, smiling, and philippe can’t breath.

“relax,” emre is staring straight at him, the smile is all thankful and handsome. “i promise i’ll make you feel good.”

“i know,” philippe nods, feeling too much pain and anticipation and his inside is burning once emre gets the head in. “ _hngh_ —fuck.”

the tip of emre’s nose is nuzzling philippe’s jaw, his moving lips against philippe’s skin are sending a trail of bizarre excitement right to his cock.

emre is taking his sweet time. his progress of fucking his cock inch by inch feels like a eternity that philippe is drenched in sweat when emre is finally in to the hilt; the kit sticks to his skin, still with one shoulder exposed thanks to its curtain-like size.

philippe is panting by the time emre tests the angle. the muscles on his legs are straining, but he secures his ankles against emre's back.

“i’m going to fuck you now, yeah?” emre says to philippe’s collarbones and philippe whines. “hold on.”

emre soon chooses his pace; it’s fast and brutal. his left hand is holding philippe up against the wall while his right hand is on philippe’s ass, kneading and leaving bruises. his cock is _dry_ , and the friction hurts. philippe bites his bottom lip to keep his pained moans, and decides to cling tighter to emre’s shoulders.

emre growls, corrects his stance, and that results in hitting philippe’s prostrate dead on.

“ah, _ah_ , emre—!” philippe sobs, now the pain is mixed with sparks of pleasure. he struggles to breathe, his whole body is on fire every time emre pounds the bundle of nerve. he hits his head to the wall as the pain/pleasure is forcing him to react, but philippe doesn’t care.

“oh! emre, emre, _please_ —please, deeper.”

emre thrusts in _deeper_. he only pulls out halfway before he pushes back in, just like philippe asks him to. he grabs the hem of his kit and bunches it up to philippe’s chest, and then he leans to suck philippe’s left nipple.

philippe wails. he can feel emre _twitching_ in him, making a slick mess with his precome.

“ungh, uh, please—” philippe twists the neck of emre’s black t-shirt, almost choking him. his jaw clacks clacks clacks with the powerful force of emre’s thrusts, and he doesn’t even know what he wants. this feels _amazing_ , yet somehow it’s not enough.

“hmm?” emre asks, rubbing philippe’s right nipple with a thumb. he gyrates his hips; alternating his thrusts, shortening them but never really pulling out at all. “good?”

“ _fuck_ ,” philippe giggles, hysterical, clenching his ass _tighter_. “you’re a fucking beast.”

“hah.” emre agrees, and touches philippe’s cock.

“NO!” philippe shouts by instinct or else he will be done soon. he pinches emre’s bicep and when emre stops thrusting his hips, he cries actual tears.

and they won’t stop falling even after a couple of heartbeats later.

philippe feels stupid. “oh god, i’m sorry.” he sobs, trying to wipe the tears off of his face but they just never ends. his hard cock deflates a little.

and so is emre’s.

“oh god.” philippe chokes, hiding his face with his hands when he’s gently laid on the bed. his empty hole is _throbbing_.

“hey,” emre is lying on his side, stroking his damp hair. his voice sounds weird, like he’s trying not to cry himself. “i hurt you, didn’t i?”

philippe shakes his head.

“no?” emre slots his face to the crook of philippe’s neck, keeping them close by tucking his arm underneath philippe’s head as a pillow. his other hand is stroking philippe’s ribs, keeping him warm.

“no.”

“okay.”

“i’m sorry. that was stupid.”

“i’m sorry, _yavrum._ ”

“no, no. please.” philippe sniffs, shifting to his side as well. he has ugly crying face but emre’s eyes light up when their gazes meet anyway. “kiss me. please. it’ll make me better.”

emre hesitates, and it doesn’t go unnoticed. philippe whines, apologizes, and confesses that he didn’t want to come too soon; _that you can get back in me but just... just don’t touch me yet, not yet,_ bebê.

“are you sure?” there’s a hint of bewildered but adoring smile on emre’s flushed face, and philippe bites his younger boyfriend’s chin.

when emre reaches for the hem, philippe stops him.

“this what brought us here!” he wriggles out of emre’s embrace to takes a firm hold of emre’s half hard cock. ignoring emre’s surprised growl, philippe strokes it to completion using both of his hands.

it’s weird to pick up where they left off. not to mention emre is busy beating himself off for what he thinks he did wrong. which is nothing. he did nothing wrong. it was all philippe.

“c-come here,” philippe opens his arms and emre dutifully leans down to kiss him. “stop crying.”

“who’s crying?” emre scrunches his nose and magically the sad look is back on his handsome face. “do you need lube?”

“ _stop. talking._ ” philippe rolls his eyes, blushing. “‘m fine. i want you to give it to me. want to feel you in my sleep, _chuchu_.” he grabs emre’s idle hands and directs them to press the twin juts of his hipbones, locking him in place. “like this,” he murmurs to emre’s lips, “fuck me hard like this.”

philippe’s hole clenches but it doesn’t resist emre’s cock that much. or that long, because after emre is again buried in to the hilt, philippe spreads his legs wider and _takes_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

>   
>   
>   
>  ↓↓↓  
> DO YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT CANINHO / HENDOLLANA plot because hit me up in the comment nods nods.  
>   
>   
> 


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